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Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen Swung by seraphim, whose foot-lalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch !” I cried, “thy god hath lent thee-by these angels

he hath sent thee Respite-respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff , oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore !"

Quoth the Raven, “Never more." “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!-prophet still, if · bird or

devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here

ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchantedOn this home by horror haunted-tell me truly, I imploreIs there—is there balm in Gilead ?-tell me, tell me, I implore ?"

Quoth the Raven,

“Never more.” “Prophet!" said I, “thing of evil !-prophet still, if bird or

devil! By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both

adoreTell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name LenoreClasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ?”

Quoth the Raven, “Never more. “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !” I shriek’d,

upstarting “Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Plutonian

shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath

spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken !-quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted-never

ore! Edgar Poe.



Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear me!

, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man : To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, -when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, -nips bis root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth : my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open’d: Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favors !
There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

and fears than wars or women liave;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Enter CROMWELL, amazedly.

Why, how now, Cromwell ?
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

What, arnaz'd
At my misfortunes ? can thy spirits wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, and you weep;
I am fallen indeed!
Crom. How does your grace ?

Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell:
I know myself now; and I feel within
A mace above all earthly dignities--
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy : too much honor-
Oh, ?tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Wol. I hope I have : I am able now, methinks,
(Out of fortitude of soul, I feel)
To endure more miseries, and greater far
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad?

Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol. God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord Chancellor in your place.

That's somewhat sudden;
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness's favor, and do justice
For truth's sake, and his conscience; and his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,-
Install’d Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol. That's news indeed.

Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pulld me down. O

The king has gone beyond me; all my glories
In that one woman, I have lost for ever :
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master : Seek the king-
That I

pray, may never set! I have told him
What and how true thou art: he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him
(I know his noble nature) not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Must I, then, leave you ? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master ?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. -


O my lord!

The king shall have my service; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.
Wol. Cromwell

, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And,---when I am forgotten, as I shall be !
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me no more must be heard of,--say I taught thee
Say Wolsey,—that once trode the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,-
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition ;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ?
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee ;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not;
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fallist, o Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed niartyr. Serve the king;
And, Prithee, lead me in :
Then take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny ; 'tis the king's; my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with hall the zeal
I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine emies.

Crom. Good sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.



HARK ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks ;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch !
Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Birtlıs, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But, oh, the important budget ! usher'd in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings ? Have our troops awaked?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ?
Is India free? and does she wear her plumed
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart

, reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh— I long to know them all;
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.

Cooper, ,

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